


Dysfunctional

by porcelainepeony



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS
Genre: Angry Sex, Ficlet, M/M, SlashRyoken Event!, Smut, Takeru/Ryoken, recoilshipping, takeryo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 06:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19168063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcelainepeony/pseuds/porcelainepeony
Summary: Dealing with emotions is hard for both Takeru and Ryoken, but they somehow (mostly) make it work.Takeru/Ryoken (recoilshipping) for the #slashryoken event!





	Dysfunctional

**Rated:** M (just assume I’m going to write smut everyday after all)  
**Word Count:** ~970  
**Pairing:** Takeru/Ryoken  
**Theme:** Communication  
**Notes:** SOB I FEEL LIKE I’M CHEATING ON TAKEYUSA BUT A FRIEND REALLY WANTED THIS SO I AM DELIVERING SPECIFICALLY FOR HER <3 ALSO I have no idea why this turned into angry/angsty/dysfunctional sex, but I guess that’s my headcanon for them (you know it's canon fff). So yea, warning I guess—mentions of angry Takeru and punching and Ryoken being okay with all that. Tread with caution???

xxx

Taking a punch was easy for Ryoken when punching was the simplest way for Takeru to release his frustration and anger and spite. Ryoken didn’t mind the pain that came with Takeru’s bouts of fury. Didn’t mind receiving Takeru’s hostility and bitterness, his fire and rage. The sharpness of Takeru’s knuckles as they collided with his tender flesh was palpable. Definite. Easy to understand. It was deciphering what was behind the punch that was difficult and troublesome, a task Ryoken ignored time and again.

Even years after establishing a so-called friendship, of spending countless days arguing, disagreeing, and shouting at each other, of one day sharing a laugh and a kiss that evolved into an unsteady and rocky relationship, Ryoken couldn’t unravel the true meaning behind Takeru’s outbursts nor the reason why his fists shook with anger one second then unfurled and smoothed over cheeks in silent apology the next.

It hadn’t taken long for Ryoken to realize he preferred the more aggressive, rougher side of their relationship—preferred the hair pulling to the hand holding, the biting and forceful gripping to the cuddling and tender caressing. It was the best way the two communicated—a physical display of force and desperation undulating and cascading, thrashing and swaying—as opposed to a charade of smiles and roses and sentimentality.  
  
Not that Takeru didn’t drown Ryoken in gentleness. Even when he spun Ryoken around, tossed him onto the bed face first, climbed over him, and shoved his face into the mattress, Takeru’s touch was soft. A fatigued, residual flame that could not—would not—harm a moth.

“Are you trying to suffocate me?” Ryoken managed after turning his head, bangs tousled, what was left of his clothes rumpled. He was breathless from the argument. From the snarls turned kisses. From the unquenchable desire to anger Takeru in hopes of receiving those stares of contempt and hatred he so deserved.

“Maybe,” Takeru replied, pulling Ryoken’s pants, tossing them on the floor besides their shoes and shirts and jackets.

Ryoken huffed and gripped the blanket, shuddered when Takeru threw his leg over his thighs and hovered above him. Palms smoothed against Ryoken’s shoulder blades, while fingertips dug into muscles. A sigh left Ryoken’s lips. Slate blue eyes closed. His body relaxed beneath the feel of Takeru’s hands traveling down his back, of the light weight pressing into him, of Takeru’s erection nestling between his ass.

“Try harder,” Ryoken hummed, one cheek flushed and sore, the other burning with desire. He didn’t know what came over him. Why the urge to feel something— _anything_ —leaked into every exchange he had with Takeru, but the words left his lips before he could stop them, and Takeru wasn’t one to hold back when provoked.

Shifting, Takeru leaned down till his chest was flush against Ryoken’s back. Lips touched the side of Ryoken’s face, breath ghosting against his earlobe, teeth nibbling the soft skin on the nape of his neck. That tenderness didn’t last. Rather, it was replaced by a hard bite, one Ryoken knew would bruise. One he would proudly wear for days and skim fingers over in moments of contemplative daydreams.

Takeru’s hands were rougher thereafter, groping and caressing intensely, spreading Ryoken’s legs without warning, causing him to tremble in delight when his lower body was raised just so and lube kissed his entrance. Fingers massaged the tight ring of muscle, lingering for only a few seconds, till a scream tore from Ryoken. The cry reverberated. Bounced off the walls. Mingled with the subsequent moans that spilled from his lungs.

Takeru held his weight on his arms and knees, driving his erection deep into Ryoken’s ass with a speed fueled by frustration. It was frantic and desperate, rough and jarring, but Ryoken answered each thrust with needy whines, hands clutching onto Takeru’s pillow, cock rubbing furiously against the bedsheets. If it weren’t for the pillow, Ryoken might have actually suffocated, might have buried his face into the blankets to stop from crying out. Instead, the scent of Takeru’s shampoo drowned him, lulled him into a false sense of contentment and peace where he and Takeru left behind their disdain and existed far from the past that haunted them despite fleeting moments of laughter and genuine happiness.

“Ryo… ken,” Takeru moaned above him. It was the only warning Ryoken received before Takeru buried himself deeper. Picked up the pace. Burned his insides over and over until he pulled free and released against his backside. 

Ryoken groaned in reply. Bit his bottom lip as warmth spread against his groin and abdomen.

Inhaling deeply, Takeru rolled off Ryoken and stared at the ceiling. His breathing was heavy and deep, yet the silence between them was louder. More revealing. For a moment, Ryoken wondered if they could ever be something more than smiles heavy with burden. More than heated lovemaking. More than hatred layered with agony. He wondered if their time spent together would ever amount to anything besides petty arguments. And he dared to wonder if talking and listening could heal their wounds and stop the angry squabbling. 

Takeru spoke, destroying what little hope Ryoken procured as their bodies became one. “I’ll never love you,” he confessed, words laced with regret and anguish.

Ryoken closed his eyes. Breathed in Takeru’s scent. Whispered a faint “ _good_ ” into the air before rolling onto his side and pressing his back against Takeru’s arm. He did not have to plague his mind with any more wonder. The answer was there. It had always been there. Hidden among the bitter fists and lazy caresses, the careless words meant to inflict damage and the gentleness Takeru displayed when he tossed his arm around Ryoken’s waist and buried his nose in his hair.

They weren’t meant to love freely. Not until they both learned to forgive.


End file.
